Dear Mavis, Are You Bloody Well Kidding Me?

by Abracadebra

What happens when Newkirk finds out that his sister has been writing letters to Colonel Hogan-and that the Guv has actually been writing back? Letters from an irritable British corporal happen, that's what. Many thanks for Prolegomenon for inspiring this response with her very funny "To Colonel RE Hogan" story.

1. Chapter 1: Gobsmacked

This story is a response to Prolegomenon's "To Colonel RE Hogan." I'm grateful for the inspiration.

NOVEMBER 6, 1943

Dear Mavis,

I was gobsmacked to learn that Colonel Hogan has been writing to you, and that you are writing back. And before you try to deny it, I assure you it wasn't hard to suss.

First off, I recognize your handwriting, miss. Second, he gets a sneaky look on his face when the post arrives and he snatches away all the letters with British stamps before anyone can have a look. Then he hides in his office and we hear him snickering through the paper-thin walls of this rat trap. Next thing you know, he's back out here in the main barracks, harassing me about my very reasonable efforts to keep life interesting in this hell hole or badgering me to cut down on smoking.

I mean, who cares if I'm playing shell games with the guards or selling stakes of post-war business enterprises to the other lads? I'm not doing nobody no harm. I'm just trying to accumulate enough fags to keep me from going out of me head with boredom.

Well, I snatched some of them "missives from Mavis" that he carelessly left on his desk. I read them, put them back, and he never had a clue. If that's not proof that I don't need any looking-after, I don't know what is.

All I can say is, are you bloody well kidding me? I don't know what you're up to, my girl, but I thought Mam raised us better than this. We ought to look out for one another, not get into league with devious American Colonels, even if they do have some admirable qualities, such as being devious.

I'd like to know what he's saying to you, but he's an officer and I don't fancy a court martial so I can't really ask him, now can I?

Speaking of Mam, cor, did I need her when I came down with this terrible chest cold. It's gone on for weeks and weeks. Mam would know how to get me better, and I reckon you would have too. But somehow, Louis—my French mate what I've mentioned to you before—came up with a cup of tea that was almost identical to that salty, sweet stuff Mam used to serve us when we were ill!

Now if I could only get Louis to stop sneaking up on me to pour fish stew down my throat or slather me with his grand-mere's mustard plaster, my life would be back to normal, or as close as it can get in this dump. I'd like to have a smoke, for starters. But between being flatulent from fish stew and having no idea what flammable substances Louis is rubbing into my chest, I'm afraid I'll combust if I strike a match.

If you'd like to make up to me for your treachery, please send packets of fags and matches because I shall be over this cold eventually. A new pack of cards, a good pen to mark them with, and some lemon drops wouldn't hurt neither. And kindly confine your Stalag XIII letter writing to me. I'm bleeding lonely, and as long as you're writing anyway, a few more letters to me wouldn't hurt.

And whatever you do, don't go falling for him. He's got women on two continents throwing themselves at him as it is, and I'm not having my favorite sister join his lonely hearts parade.

Love to you and all the family from your thick idiot brother what loves you,
Peter